Execution Day
by Steve Champion aka Adisa Akanni Kamara
(San Quentin Death Row Prisoner)
What happens is this:
It doesn't matter if on the day of an execution the morning forecast is sunny and warm. The
human humidity on death row is always high, laced with the moisture of anger, like a turbulent
storm brewing. It is both eerie and sickish, as if some mysterious and awful sore is readying to
discharge itself as the clock ticks down.
The day of an execution is the quietest day on death row. The usual early morning banter, pots
and pans being hustled about by guards preparing to serve breakfast, the morning ritual of "roll
call" as someone shouts good morning to friends, sounds of TVs and radios being switched on—
they all lie smothered as if the pending doom have the ability to suck oxygen right from the air.
Often the silence on death row is deafening. On any other day it would be a welcome addition to
break up the monotony from the screeching noise. One would assume the silence is a result of
people becoming more introspective, more serious and contemplative about the reality of their
situation. In some cases this is true. But the opposite is closer to reality. Most people are in
bed asleep trying to escape the very reality that consumes their minds. A mind that's haunted
and plagued by what could be their fate.
Anytime there is a scheduled execution the entire prison, all programming comes to a complete
halt. Everything ceases while San Quentin moves into high security, standing patient and poised
to strangle and toxify to death another life. Prison officials stroll the tiers peering into the cells at
us. They have a strange and bizarre look in their eyes as if they're seeing some rare disgusting
animals on the verge of extinction. They never look you directly in your eyes for fear you’d see
right through them. Many of them support and voted for the death penalty and would gleefully
rejoice when we are pronounced dead. Nothing is exchanged during these observations except
hostile glances.
Most people on death row will be glued to their TVs or radios, listening intensely as news
reporters interrupt the daily programs to give updates on the pending execution. The gathering
of anti- and pro-death penalty groups will start to assemble in front of the prison gates with
picket signs and a conviction that their cause will be the one to prevail. A phalanx of prison
goons standing in full combat gear will be stationed in front of the prison gate forming a
prophylactic shield like serfs protecting the fortress of their feudal lord from invasion.
The attorneys for the condemned will be scurrying and scrambling around throughout the day in
front of cameras and behind the scenes making last ditch efforts to save the life of their client.
They’ll work overtime trying to convince their client that there is always hope and not to give up.
But we, who been on Death Row, know that to be a lie that last minute appeals to an apathetic
court driven Governor (who rode in office as a pro death penalty candidate) is like asking a
hungry bear not to bite you.
Death penalty opponents will give fiery and spirited speeches throughout the night trying to
create a hopeful and optimistic atmosphere in the face of something diabolical and demonic. The
tug of war between the pros and cons of the death penalty will rage on, but in the end no one
wins. A reporter will announce the condemned man's menu of his last meal, and the small
gathering of true believers and the preachers of hate will stand juxtaposed, as the night vigil of
candles along with silent prayers speaks forceful as thunder and bright as lightning.
Death row prisoners are attuned to everything going on. We understand whatever the outcome
our situation is highlighted and amplified. None of us are removed from the execution, none of
us walks away unaffected. Many of us stay up hoping the attorney unearth some new evidence
the court's ruling, or in a temporary fit of idealism, maybe a judge acting too hastily in a earlier
decision will change his ruling. We are always disappointed. But hope, as fleeting as it is, is all
we have at this level. And when that is gone....
Men who normally don't pray will unconsciously find themselves asking God to exert his powers
and intervene to save a life. We usually get our answer after 12:01 AM, when in the morning
we're let off lock down and the prison returns to "business as usual."
Write Adisa Akanni Kamara (Steve Champion) Directly at:
Steve Champion C-58001 4-E-63
San Quentin State Prison
San Quentin, CA. 94974